Jaskier jots down what he can recall, which is a fair amount, and scribbles over some notes for a bawdy song about a sheep-herd and his lamb of a mistress. He watches Geralt sag against the pillows and sleep, and cannot help the bemused hum that leaves him as he finishes writing. He, perhaps, underlines the word aphrodisiac in conjunction to wormwood but that's neither here nor there in the mess of fine script that makes up his songbook.
Clearly just a tidbit to remember for the next bawdy song.
He leaves the book open, lets the ink dry, and goes about cleaning the room as quickly and quietly as he can. He piles all the spare food on one of the plates and leaves it in easy range of the sleeping Witcher, disposes of the other plates, of the frigid, dirtied bathwater, and fetches more to drink.
Unfortunately, he's awake now, mind abuzz with new learning. He decides, on a whim, to mix the concoction that Geralt explained to him and swipes the necessary supplies from the Witcher's bag so he can make the attempt. It's a bit rough, the leaves are too finely ground, the tallow is thick and sticky, but he has a tin of it done before he finds himself drifting again.
He isn't sure why he decides to crowd the Witcher on the bed--so he doesn't get another cup thrown at him, he decides--but he does. The bed is, by far and away, much more comfortable than the floor and Jaskier cheerfully settles into the space between Geralt's bulk and the wall. He's asleep almost as soon as he's comfortable and the last thought before he drifts is of flowers and herbs and first string violin concertos, oddly.
no subject
Clearly just a tidbit to remember for the next bawdy song.
He leaves the book open, lets the ink dry, and goes about cleaning the room as quickly and quietly as he can. He piles all the spare food on one of the plates and leaves it in easy range of the sleeping Witcher, disposes of the other plates, of the frigid, dirtied bathwater, and fetches more to drink.
Unfortunately, he's awake now, mind abuzz with new learning. He decides, on a whim, to mix the concoction that Geralt explained to him and swipes the necessary supplies from the Witcher's bag so he can make the attempt. It's a bit rough, the leaves are too finely ground, the tallow is thick and sticky, but he has a tin of it done before he finds himself drifting again.
He isn't sure why he decides to crowd the Witcher on the bed--so he doesn't get another cup thrown at him, he decides--but he does. The bed is, by far and away, much more comfortable than the floor and Jaskier cheerfully settles into the space between Geralt's bulk and the wall. He's asleep almost as soon as he's comfortable and the last thought before he drifts is of flowers and herbs and first string violin concertos, oddly.